WRITING

I breathe in and out, deeply, calmly.

I am sitting on my bed with my legs crossed, I'm leaning into my hands which are pressed into the mattress either side of me, feeling the soft fabric under my palms.

It feels like time has slowed down.

The days aren't any longer, but everything is suspended.

I can't make plans for the future, I can't travel, or go to work. I can only be present.

My days are spent oblivious of time.

Everything has slowed down. I watch my immediate environment and the routine of my body.

In the morning I lie in bed, appreciating the comfort, warmth and safety. 

The softness of the sheets and quiet in the air. It is hard to move.

When washing my hands and face, I dissect the feeling of water on my skin. Enjoying the energy that comes from feeling clean and fresh. Probing my reflection in the mirror.

I spend my weekends reading, for hours.

The sun moves across the sky, painting pictures across the walls and floor.

And all the while I am still, the air around me has frozen and all I can see are the pages in front of me.

I can barely remember the time before, when I used to rush and run.

I used to say to myself that I would take a break, I would have a holiday and rest. 

It was just a matter of when.

Well, when is here, when came and went. Now all I have is time.

Time to rest.

Time to reflect.

Time to sleep and read.

Time to turn inwards.

The world outside has continued to spin but just slower.

I scrutinise my immediate environment in so much detail.

It's the same rooms, same house, same stone steps to the door, same grass outside, same chipped paint on the windowsill and cobwebs in the far corner.

Same duvet wrapped around me and pillow against my face, same shampoo in my hair and tap to wash my hands.

But now I sit with it, for hours. No other distractions just being present in this space. Existing in my home with a whole new meaning of what that is.

I notice the dust on the lamp shade, the moth on the wall, a stray hair on the bathroom floor and scratches in the wood of my bedroom drawers.

I take time to admire the trees outside my window, the blooming flowers along the path.

When it rains I watch it stream down the window glass, when cloudy I stare out at the fog.

When I go outside I notice birdsong and the sound of the wind.

And I breathe deeper.

When the plates start turning again, I want to be able to hold on to this.

To choose stillness. To slow down. For the air to freeze, time suspend and just watch.